Day 4                                                                         Map

 

 

 

 

The room was as quiet as a Yorkshire mine shaft, apart from the crunch of branflakes and the weird gurgling noises effervescing from the stomach of a guest opposite. They really should have the radio on in pub breakfast rooms, so many of them don’t. However, the meal itself turned out to be good, though, instead of fried bread they’d gone posh and presented gently sliced baby pommes de terre, lightly fried in butter and dusted with pepper. This would have been quite tasty later in the day but didn’t work for me first thing in the morning.

 

After re-loading the rucksack with all the stuff it had been so easy to spread around the room the night before, buying a few provisions from the local shops and double checking I’d packed everything, it was nearly 10 o’clock when I paid up and left the White Lion and said ‘I’ll see thee.’ to Hebden Bridge. I knew that I’d get about two miles down the road and not remember putting something really important into the bag, like the maps or camera, or bar of chocolate. The uncertainty would nag me for another half mile or so until I’d give in and stop for a rummage until I found it right down at the bottom.

 

As I split the town it was pretty well perfect weather for walking: cloudy and cool. I still didn’t see any hippies, they must have still been crashed out after dropping all that acid last night. What a bummer. The cooler weather didn’t last long either man, by the time I reached the woods it was sunny and very hot. Dragsville U.S.A.

 

I’d decided to go by way of Hardcastle Craggs. Mark Wallington in his entertaining read Pennine Walkies writes enthusiastically about this woodland walk so I thought I’d give it a try. It sounded more interesting than going back along a busy road to walk up fields I’d probably see the like of innumerable times in the days to come. Rigidly following every step of the official Pennine Way path was never part of my plan. As long as I covered approximately 270 miles on more or less the same course that would do for me. The wood is a local beauty spot which judging by the amount of yellow paint on the nearby roads must be very popular on a sunny weekend. I thought it pleasant enough but couldn’t find anything which gave me the urge to get the camera out. I rejoined the Pennine Way just before Walshaw Dean lower reservoir. 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   A  Sign Which Tells Japanese Visitors Looking for the Bronte Experience Where They Should Go

 

The three Walshaw Dean reservoirs were named after a local lad from Haworth, real name Harry Webbersley. He was a minor singing star and heart throb of the late 50s early 60s reaching number 7 in the hit parade with the ballad ‘Golden roses always make me want to cry over you’. He had two other singles which just managed to scrape into the top thirty but he appeared on Thank Your Lucky Stars four times and rumours were rife about him and the ‘Oil give it Foive’ girl. The latter part of his short career was marred by his addiction to milk and purple hearts (the amphetamine, not the medals) and his last single ‘Tell Nora I love her’ flopped amid allegations of blatant plagiarism. His decline was accelerated by the country’s outrage when he was rude to David Jacobs on Juke Box Jury. He didn’t say thank you when Mr Jacobs complimented him on his quiff. His last public appearance was as Tree #3 in Babes in the Wood at the Gaumont Picture Palace and Theatre, Ripon, in January 1962. This was just at the time the reservoirs were being completed and the mayor of Haworth, a Councillor Webbersley, got them named in his honour.

 

“The lad’s put Haworth ont’ map!” he’d exclaimed “What else ist’ town famous fer?”

 

I stopped for a bit of lunch at the lower one and mused about Walshaw. I vaguely remembered reading his obituary in The Telegraph a good number of years ago. He’d emigrated to Australia for a new life when the possibility of a showbiz comeback had been destroyed by the onset of Beatlemania. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been there more than six months when he’d been killed in a tragic accident involving a game of spin the bottle, a pair of wellies and some sheep-dip.

 

When Pete Murray Heard that Walshaw was About to Leave for Australia he is Reported to Have Said "I always knew that boy would go far." 

 

Meanwhile, the clouds had returned but it was still very hot and I was getting short of water. I was carrying a 75cl plastic bottle and a 2 litre capacity flexi-flask which I hadn’t put anything like enough in that morning. I’d used up all my reserve and the bottle was now half empty. It was simply too hot to go far without liquid. If I didn’t find another source of water soon I’d have to drink my own urine. The trouble was I didn’t have any.

 

Of course I was doing all this worrying about the lack of water while I was sat next to a reservoir. I didn’t have purification pills with me and was more than usually cautious about drinking from streams, being on the walk, but the water in the reservoir would have been perfectly ok Amazingly it just never occurred to me at the time.

 

As it was now about one o’clock it was time to decide on the destination for the night. My legs had been a bit reluctant to get moving that morning but seemed quite happy now so Cowling seemed the ideal choice. Ponden and Haworth were too close and Lothersdale a hill too far. I rang Woodland House and got a twin for sole use at what sounded a reasonable rate. While looking at some Yank’s account of his Pennine Way experiences on the net I’d noticed he’d recommended this b & b very highly. It was also en-suite which is a big plus when you have a middle- aged bladder.

 

I hadn’t seen anyone for over an hour and it looked as though I had the moors to myself until I walked up to the middle reservoir and there was a group of six other walkers just setting off from their lunch break, going in the same direction. First I got ahead then they did then I was walking in the middle of them so I stopped to let them all get clear of me. It was an all male party of two in their early twenties with large rucksacks who’d been camping and four forty somethings only carrying day sacks who’d opted for the soft option of b & bs. Funnily it was always the two with the heavy rucksacks who lead the way. They all stopped for a brief chat before getting out of my way. They’d set off on Friday as well, though were only doing a four day stint so were due to finish that day. They had also had the pleasure of meeting my pal from yesterday, struggling up Jacob’s Ladder on the first day. I filled them in on his progress up to last night. They were all deeply concerned for the welfare of a fellow walker but managed to hide it behind their tears of laughter. 

 

 

 The Sheep at Top Withins don't just beg for food, they try and sell you a copy of The Biggish Ewe

 

 

The group had left Top Withins, Emily Bronte’s inspiration for Wuthering Heights, a few hundred yards before I got there so the sheep only had me to beg from for a while. The view down to Haworth was marred somewhat by the heat haze, a growing problem over the coming days. I didn’t think the place seemed as isolated as portrayed in the book. Of course they felt things more in those emotional days when you could quite easily die from a touch of the unrequited passions and it might feel a bit different in a blizzard.

 

I really had to do something about the water situation so headed off to the Old Silent Inn at Stanbury, hoping it was open during the afternoon. The quickest way was down Back Lane then left along the road to the pub; and it was silent, I was the only one in until I found the barmaid. A few minutes later the group of six came in, they’d come the long way down and were desperate for beer. They’d finished their four day outing and were rightly having a few before being picked up by their wags. They said they intended to complete the Pennine Way in day trips which sounds like a project that could last a few years.

 

Top  Withins from, Presumably, Middle Withins

  

 

 

I had a couple of J2Os, got my water bottle filled up and was on my way. It wasn’t very pleasant walking along the road to rejoin the Way at the top end of Ponden reservoir. It’s quite a narrow and busy road so it was a balancing act to avoid being run over and not being ripped to shreds by the thorns and prickles at the side of the road. I was very glad to get off it and on to the steep but fairly short climb up to the moors.

  

 

Ickornshaw moor has a scruffy air about it, to my mind, but I was enjoying a pleasant early evening stroll over it until I came to a rock which had been vandalised by the incredibly selfishly stupid owners of the other b & b in Cowling, Winterhouse Barn. These people think it’s perfectly all right to daub their telephone number in paint wherever they feel like. I wonder what their attitude would be if their local asbo dodger left his mark in spray paint on their wall. In a way I felt sorry I hadn’t booked a room there, so I could tell them where to stick it.

 

Cowling is a nothing much to look at large village with more ducks than people and a gun shop, handy for those going south to tool up before reaching Greater Manchester. The best thing about it is Woodland House B & B. and I’m not saying this just to put you off the other place. I was made very welcome by the landlady with a cup of tea and slice of cake and then shown the room. It was not large but spacious enough, with the same to be said for the bathroom. You could tell that a lot of thought had gone into what a guest might need in the room and there was certainly nothing I could think of that it was missing. It was clean, comfortable, with too many towels and it was also quiet. The road through Cowling is noisy and the few yards away from it made a big difference for a restful night. So if you stay in Cowling you have a choice of two. One has rooms that are not en-suite, is right on a noisy main road and is run by people who spoil the countryside with their graffiti. The other place to stay is called Woodland House which I haven’t finished singing the praises of yet.

 

The nearby restaurant was closed, being a Monday, but the husband, Sandy, drove me the couple of miles to a pub for my dinner. Sandy turned out to have psychic powers. After I’d finished my meal I’d just walked out of the door and was starting to dial his number when he drove up to take me back.

 

‘I were just looking through t’goat’s entrails and noticed you were about finished’ He said.

 

After a bit of a chat it was up to my room for the nightly sock washing ritual, a watch of the forecast and a think about how far I wanted to do tomorrow

 

                                                  Leaving Cowling the Following Morning